the sound of waves
by Ushinatta Neko
Summary: He always left her behind, and she hated him for that. "When will you stop?" [Angst LenKu] [One-shot]


_A/N: You have no idea how good it is to write angst again. _

**Disclaimer: You think I own Vocaloid? No.**

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><p>He sways a little in the wind. The breeze nips his neck, ruffles his hair, throws his black-and-white scarf in disorder, but he doesn't care, doesn't move, only stares at the deep, deep blue waters crashing and tossing beneath his feet. White foam sprays up, and he reaches out, but it's no good. He's too far away after all, too far away to touch the cool liquid, too far away to care anymore, too far away to mind anymore.<p>

He closes his eyes, enjoys the feel of the wind on his face, because it's the last time he'll ever feel it, and dammit, maybe he's a little nostalgic after all. His eyelids slide open to take in the view before him, but the more he stares at the waters, the more he's reminded of her eyes. A deep ultramarine colour, tinted with just the right shade of viridian, mixed together to form the most vibrant eyes he'd ever seen.

So yes, he's having second thoughts.

Cars and lorries and motorcycles and vans whiz past behind him, everyone else far too busy, far too self-indulgent to notice a teenager sitting precariously on the edge of the highway — never mind how he got here anyways. He breathes in the salty air — can taste the salt on his tongue and it clears his head a little — and throws his head back for a raucous laugh. Of course, the world spins carefully, quickly, time moving smoothly, the people drive by lightning-fast and no one cares for a little boy staring out wistfully at the sea.

The sea which reminds him so much of her beautiful, beautiful eyes.

His phone rings and he's about to ignore it, but then caller is her after all, so he picks it up. Cell phone hangs loosely in his grip, shoved against his ear — he stares up absentmindedly at the other steel-framed highway opposite to this one — and he answers, "Hello?" Her voice is cheery and so _full of life _and so different from him that it is an antithesis — but is that a hint of brokenness in her lilting tone? — and as she rambles on and on and on about her day he can't help the slight curve of his lips.

She pauses, "Len?" and what else can he do except to answer with a "Hn?" because he can just imagine her right now, eyes shining, cheeks pink from speaking too much, steps hurrying to wherever she has to go next, and he finds that so amusing and cute that his stomach twists over itself, because _hell, _he isn't supposed to feel that way. Not now, not ever. He starts to rise when she speak again.

"When will you stop leaving me hanging for more?" It comes out as a breathy whisper, so soft that he thinks he imagined hearing it, but the question is there nonetheless, spoken but not spoken, and he doesn't know how to answer it. It is, he supposes and convinces himself, just another one of her random shout-outs so he only asks, "Huh?"

He wishes he hasn't, because the next thing he knows, she's brushing the question away and smiling and laughing into the phone about some thing or another. He resumes staring at the roaring sea, waves tossing here and there, licking the stainless steel supports.

He can only stare at the dark blue depths of the sea, cursing himself for his ineptness, cell phone still loose in his grip and still against his ear, her voice still chattering away cheerfully — and that he is glad for because at least she is a constant in his ever-changing life, the wind still blowing, as he dives forward. He wonders if she can hear the sound of the waves — waves that are so, so close now — and hopes that she can't, because then she'll be heartbroken and he doesn't want that.

The last thing he sees is the telltale teal hair fluttering in the wind before the dark murky depths swallow him whole. And as air escapes in the form of bubbles, he wonders if she cried.

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She wonders if he can see her. She hopes that he can, but she's glad that he can't.

Oh, but she can see him all right. She can see the bright blonde hair she loves so much tousled by the wind, the black-and-white scarf she knitted for him waving in the wind, can see him reaching his arm out. They're only separated by fifty meters of air and nothing else, and she has no reason to be here, so she is glad she can see him and he cannot see her.

She knows he doesn't want anyone else to see him. But then again, she asks herself, if no one is there to see him die, does that make him _death by suicide_? Because no one has actually seen him, so he doesn't actually die by drowning, right? Just like how when a tree falls and no one is there, no sound is made, so you can't actually say that the tree fell and made a sound. She supposes that the analogy is applicable in many situations, just like now. She smiles a little, teal bangs brushing against deep ultramarine eyes, and the sunlight reflects off the sea into her eyes.

The sun is high up in the sky even though it is winter, the waves still crashing into each other even though all other water bodies have frozen, they are both still out here even though it is cold and dry and absolutely no way to die.

She plays with her cell phone, fingers twisting the strap — the strap that he bought for her birthday, the strap that she accepted gleefully — and dials his number. Her fingers press on the eight buttons almost as if they have a mind of their own (muscle memory she supposes) and he picks up. She can see him picking the phone up, can see him gaze up into her general direction — her heart pumps in adrenaline and fear — but he doesn't see her.

She begins her usual conversation, her legs swinging in the air as she stares at him (even if he doesn't know). The steel is cold under her fingertips as she runs her digits across the metal and her bottom aches. She wonders, as her mouth continues moving of its own accord, why no one has stopped her yet while she sits on the edge of the highway, and thinks that adults are just like that, cold and unfeeling and uncaring, absorbed in their own worlds, and if they manage to grow up, will they become like that too? She hopes not.

In front of her, far far away, he starts to rise and she doesn't want him to fall, not yet, so she gushes out something, she doesn't know what it is (and seconds later, she remembers) but the wind carries her words away, and she's scared that he might not have heard her.

But he must have, because he stops and settles into a sitting position again, and he questions her question, voice quiet in her phone. She plays it off by touching on another topic, and for a while they just both sit there, the wind blowing through their hair. Then she can sense him getting ready for his little trip somehow, and even as she speaks, she wishes — in her heart — him luck on his journey in another world, another world that isn't as cruel as this one. She tells him — in her heart — not to worry that no one would be there to acknowledge him, like always, like before she started loving him, because she's here. She promises herself not to cry, because he'd be heartbroken, but when he falls forward, she can't help hating him for leaving her behind again, for leaving her hanging.

She closes her eyes and the sound of waves reach her ears loud and clear.

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><p><em>Thinking of writing a fanfiction with lots of gore in it...I mean, is it even good for my mindsanity?! _


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